Tilted Guilt.

Unfortunately I had nothing better to do on a Thursday then have lunch at the Tilted Kilt. This was a special day indeed. Upon entering the restaurant from the very sunny 16^th Street Mall Downtown, my friend and I found ourselves trying to adjust our eyesight. We were equally astounded by the array of bare belly girls (women?) in sexy plaid skirts reminiscent of Brittney Spear’s school girl motif music video and it was also pretty dark in there. We were seated by a skinny brunette in the back of the restaurant surrounded by tables of Caucasian middle aged men with empty beer glasses and full Buddha bellies. Our server was beautiful in the classic naughty school girl (that you want to punch in the face) way, and she was entirely uninterested in friendly exchanges, so we hastily ordered our typical lunch beers and hot wings.

Waiting for the food and drink allowed me time to really take in the scene around me and think to myself, “What the fuck am I doing here?”  It was that very moment our tall beers arrived and since we had nothing to discuss, we sipped and stared. None of the servers seemed very happy to be at work. I didn’t see them getting any special attention from or giving any special attention to customers. You see, we were there for them, the Britnies.  My friend walks a flirtatious line of sexual identity: being a beautiful women who likes beautiful women, but was scheduled to marry a testosterone oozing man. I took her there for fun, as a last “hoorah” moment (among a long list of other “oh you’re finally doing it!” “he’s soooo amazing!” “You’re so lucky!” shit events that precede a wedding). I digress. . .

My tall not cold enough Coors Light forced me to realize this was an entire waste of lunch beers and a slight betrayal of self. I recalled a conversation with a friend’s younger sister, let’s call her “Katie”, who worked there. Katie was the classic young and lost soul who didn’t question the idea of a job that required her to dress provocatively.  Katie asked her manager at The Tilted Kilt for a bigger section in order to make more tips, but management only allowed servers a couple tables each. The unspoken policy there is to keep a full catalogue of girls (women?) on the floor at all times.  So follows that we took in the model thin, please-eat-a-sandwich! brunette; we scrutinized the forty-plus, over-tanned “auntie”; we picked our jaws up off the floor of the petite, Barbie-tit-endowed, ginger. All the while, trying to pretend we were comfortable there and having fun.  

The whole thing was pretty dumb. In an attempt to be open-minded and fun, I willingly walked into an abyss of mass produced unhappy half dressed girls and mediocre wings. Actually, there was one friendly waitress. She too donned the required short plaid skirt, knee high socks, and belly top. But she was also Expecting; in the Biblical sense.  A sense of urgency rose in me to get the hell out of there. When our waitress returned eventually, maybe twenty minutes later, we got the check and still somehow managed to over tip.

What. The. Fuck. Sigh. Shiver.